


Lead Me to the Storm

by ariel2me



Series: Steffon Baratheon [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-26
Updated: 2016-04-24
Packaged: 2018-02-27 03:47:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2677871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ariel2me/pseuds/ariel2me
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He was the grandson of one king, nephew of another, cousin to yet another king, and finally, father to the first Baratheon to sit the Iron Throne. Steffon Baratheon lived through the reigns of three kings, but he did not live to see his son depose his childhood companion from the throne.</p><p>(Or, how the grandson of the Laughing Storm, who once declared himself the Storm King and laid claim to the Stormlands, became the father of the Laughing Storm reborn, who declared himself king of the Seven Kingdoms and laid claim to the whole realm.)</p><p>Steffon Baratheon, beginning to end.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Child is Father to the Man

His mother was a princess. Steffon knew this long before he knew what being a princess truly meant.

(A princess must wed for the good of the realm, not for the sake of her own wishes or desires, he understood later. A princess must pay for her brother’s folly, must serve as coins to repay her father’s debt of honor. A princess must leave her home, her family and everything she knew when she was a young girl still, to serve as a cupbearer to a lord who had lost all faith in the promise of  _any_  Targaryen, even a king, a lord who demanded that the princess betrothed to his heir must live under his roof and serve under his watchful gaze until she was old enough to marry.)

His mother knew Storm’s End almost as well as his father did. Every nook, every cranny, every corner and every turn.  

“Have you always lived here, Mother?”

 “I have lived here since I was eight.”

“But why didn’t you live in the palace, with the king and the queen and the other princes and princesses?”

“I did, when I was younger.”

“And then?”

“And then I came to live here, in Storm’s End.”

“With Father?”

“Your father already lived here. He was born here, in this very room. And you were born in this room too. And someday, your children will be born in this room, and your children’s children.”

“And my children’s children’s children.”

“And your children’s children’s children’s children.”

“And my –“

(Little did they know that only two generations later, the Baratheon line would live or die on the strength of  _one_  little girl, a girl who was not even born in Storm’s End but was born amidst the salt and smoke of Dragonstone instead, a girl who upon her father’s death will be the last of the Baratheons.)

\---------------------

His father was a lord, not a prince.

“You are a lord, but Mother is a princess. So am I a lord, or am I a prince?” Little Steffon had asked his father.

“Neither. You are Steffon, and later when you have earned your spurs you will be knighted and become Ser Steffon, and later still, you will be Lord Baratheon.”

“But  _you_  are Lord Baratheon, Father. We can’t  _both_  be Lord Baratheon. Mother said I cannot name both of Florrie’s kittens Steff, only one of them.”

“What name did you choose for the other kitten?”

“Stanny. He’s the bigger and cuddlier one.”

(His father died when Steffon was still a squire, before he had earned his spurs. Gerold Hightower, the man who replaced Steffon’s father as commander of the Westerosi force fighting against the Ninepenny Kings in the Stepstones, was the one who knighted Steffon at the conclusion of that war. Steffon was Lord Baratheon before he ever became Ser Steffon. His father had been wrong after all.

But then again, how was Ormund Baratheon to know that he was going to die when his son was only four-and-ten? How was he to know that he would not live to see his son become a father? How was he to know that his son, in turn, would not live to see  _his_  own sons become fathers? Or perhaps Ormund should have known. After all, Ormund’s own father had not lived to see him become a father.) 

\---------------------

Maester Cressen was as grave and as solemn as a man of sixty, but he was not even thirty. Steffon was the only one who could make the maester laugh. Well,  _sometimes_  he could, but only when they were alone, only when no one else was around.

“Why did the storm cross the sea, Maester?”

“Because the sea is in the storm’s natural path. Take Shipbreaker Bay, for example –“   

“No! Because it wants to get to the other side.”

It took a while for the jape to sink in, but Cressen  _did_  laugh, finally.

(“We have found the most splendid fool. Robert will be delighted with him, and perhaps in time he will even teach Stannis how to laugh,” Steffon wrote to Maester Cressen, two weeks before the storm raging across Shipbreaker Bay sank his ship and drowned him and his lady wife. “And perhaps the fool will even make  _you_  laugh, Maester, as I used to,” he added, in a postscript.)

\---------------------

Uncle Harbert could make Steffon’s father laugh. He could also make Ormund weep, when he spoke of their dead sister.

 _Argella_. Argella of the Stormlands with crushed, dead flowers in her hands, when she heard the news that she had been spurned, that the prince she was betrothed to had wed a wild witch girl, Jenny of Oldstones with flowers in her hair. 

Argella had raged, Ormund had counseled patience, and Harbert was a boy too young still to understand the enormity of the situation. Their father swiftly renounced his allegiance to the Iron Throne and proclaimed himself the Storm King. The Baratheons carried the blood of the Durrandons, the blood of the Storm Kings of old through Argella Durrandon, lady wife of Orys Baratheon, Lyonel Baratheon declared. And now  _his_  Argella was humiliated and dishonored, the honor of his House was besmirched, and the Laughing Storm was not about to let that insult by the Targaryens stand.

(“How did she really die, my aunt Argella?” Steffon would ask, later, when he was old enough to understand the whole wretched saga of broken betrothal and failed rebellion.

“She died of a broken heart,” his father replied.

“She was thrown off her horse while hunting wild boars,” his mother said.

“She should not have died at all,” Uncle Harbert said.)

\---------------------

Steffon was taken to court for the first time when he was three months old, to be presented to his royal grandfather and grandmother.

“Was I put in a basket, like a gift to the king and queen?”

Ormund laughed. “No, you were in your mother’s arms.”

“And where were you, Father?”

“I was standing beside your mother.”

“And then what happened?”

“Your grandmother kissed your forehead, tousled your hair and said,  _“His hair will grow to be as black as mine, I see. Shall we call him Black Steffon?”_ ”   

“Is  _that_  where I got my black hair? From Grandmother?”

Ormund smiled. “All Baratheons have black hair.”

“So I got it from you? But why is Grandmother’s hair black and not silver, like Mother and Grandfather, if she is also a Targaryen?”

“She married a Targaryen, but she is a Blackwood by birth.”

“And what did Grandfather say, when he saw me?”

“He held you in his arms, kissed both your cheeks and your brows, and then he raised you up and announced, “ _This child is the bond that will once again reunite the Targaryens and the Baratheons in close friendship and amity.”_ ” 

“I thought  _we_  already did that, when we were wed. I thought our marriage was already sufficient to serve that purpose,” Steffon’s mother interjected. “But my father saw things differently, it seemed.”

“Your father only meant it in the best possible way, I am sure,” Steffon’s father said.

“You think too highly of my father.”

“You have cause to resent your father and your brother, I know, as you have ample cause to resent  _my_  father. But your father is my king, and I am a man whose own father once rose in a failed rebellion against that king. My loyalty must be seen to be absolute and unwavering, for all our sakes. There is no other choice, Rhaelle.”   

\---------------------

Steffon’s second visit to King’s Landing - the one he would actually remember in later years – was supposed to take place shortly after his fifth nameday. His mother began preparing him for that visit long beforehand.  

“You have three uncles, an aunt, and two cousins. Do you remember their names?”

Steffon nodded. “Aunt Shaera, that is your older sister. She is married to Uncle Jaehaerys, and they have two children, Cousin Aerys and Cousin Rhaella.” Steffon paused, before asking, “Is Cousin Rhaella named after you, Mother?”

Looking startled, his mother replied, “I don’t know. I have never asked, in truth. Possibly not, the name is not exactly the same, after all.”

“Rhaelle and Rhaella. I like  _your_  name better, Mother,” Steffon declared.

Smiling, taking him into her embrace, his mother said, “Thank you, my sweet boy, But perhaps you should not tell Rhaella that, when you meet her. It might make her sad to hear it.”

“Is she a princess too, like you?”

“Yes, she is. And Aerys is a prince.”

 “And their mother is a princess?”

“Of course. My sister is the daughter of a king, just like I am.”

“Then why am _I_  not a prince?  _My_  mother is a princess too.”

“Aerys and Rhaella are a prince and a princess because their father is a prince, not because their mother is a princess. Your father is a lord, not a prince, so you cannot be a prince.”

“Then why didn’t  _you_  marry a prince, Mother, like your sister did?”

“Do you want to be a prince so badly? If you are a prince, then your father would not be your father. He cannot take you with him when he goes hawking, or teach you how to ride your pony, or read to you before you go to sleep, or –“

“I don’t want to be a prince! I want to  _keep_  Father, always.”

“Your father will be very glad to know that.”

“Did  _you_  want to marry a prince, Mother?”

 “No, never.”

“Why not?”

“I loved my brothers, but I had no wish to marry any of them.”

“Because you wanted to marry Father instead?” Steffon asked, bright-eyed and grinning.

There was a long pause while Rhaelle stared into the distance. “Yes,” she finally said, but even a little boy knew a lie when he heard it.  

\---------------------

Later, as his father was reading to him about giants and trolls, Steffon interrupted to ask, “Why didn’t Uncle Harbert just marry Aunt Argella himself?”

“What?!” Astonished, Ormund set aside the book he had been reading aloud. “What do you mean?” He asked his son, gazing intently at the boy’s face.

“Uncle Harbert said Aunt Argella was sad because the man she was going to marry married someone else instead. And Uncle Harbert said that he loved his sister very, very much. So why didn’t  _he_ marry her, to make her less sad?”

“Well, he could not do that. They are brother and sister.”

“Uncle Jaehaerys married Aunt Shaera, and  _they_ arebrother and sister too.”

“It’s … well, it’s not the same.”

“Why not?”

“Jaehaerys and Shaera are Targaryens. The Targaryens are allowed to wed brothers and sisters.”

“But no one else is allowed?”

Ormund nodded.

Frowning, Steffon said, “But you said … you said that the rules must apply equally, the same way, to  _everyone_. You told me that when you struck my hands for taking the peaches from the kitchen without the cook’s permission. I remember that, Father. You said if the butcher’s son is to be punished, then the lord’s son must be punished too, equally, for the same offense.”

“And that is still true,” Ormund insisted. “But there are certain circumstances ... there are times when … well … there are …” Ormund sighed, heavily. His hands cupping his son’s face, he said, “The world is not always the way we wish it to be, Steffon. The way we know it  _should_ be. Do you understand?”

Steffon shook his head.

“You will, one day. I promise,” Ormund said, but unlike other promises he had made to his little boy in the past, his voice sounded unaccountably sad and mournful.

Trying to make his father less sad, Steffon smiled brightly and said, “I’m glad Mother did not have to marry one of her brothers, that she got to marry  _you_  instead.”

That did not bring a smile to his father’s face, as Steffon was hoping. “I don’t want anyone else to be my father,” Steffon continued.

This time, his father  _did_  smile. 

“Not even if it would make you a prince?” Ormund asked.

Steffon shook his head, vigorously.

“Or a king?”

“Not even for  _that_ ,” Steffon replied. A thought struck him. “Will Cousin Aerys be king?” He asked.

“He will, one day, but that is still far, far in the future.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is no confirmation in canon that the great-uncle Harbert who was the castellan of Storm’s End that Stannis mentioned in A Clash of Kings was actually a Baratheon. (He could have been an Estermont. Stannis made his wife's uncle Axell Florent the castellan of Dragonstone; it's not inconceivable that Steffon could have appointed Cassana's uncle to be castellan of Storm's End.) But for the purpose of this fic, let’s assume that Stannis' great-uncle Harbert was the younger brother of Ormund Baratheon.
> 
> Likewise, there is no indication in canon when Maester Cressen actually started serving as a maester at Storm’s End. Cressen is said to be “not far from his eightieth nameday” in A Clash of Kings, and Steffon was born in 246 AC, which would make Cressen in his twenties when Steffon was born. Judging from the example of Maester Pylos who was “no more than five-and-twenty” when he started serving as a maester in Dragonstone, it’s not impossible that Cressen would have already been around in Storm’s End during Steffon’s childhood. I like the continuity of Cressen being there from the beginning, so that’s what I’m going with in this fic.


	2. A Stag among Dragons

His mother had several different smiles. There was one reserved only for Steffon, only for her little boy, the one Steffon guarded jealously, always on the lookout that she was not being so free and so easy bestowing that smile to anyone and everyone.

There was another smile of his mother that Steffon did not like, that scared him, almost. This one had her lips pressed tightly together, as if she was smiling to stop herself from saying rude words, the kind of words she would be scolding Steffon for ever saying.

His mother was smiling that smile now as another one of her siblings approached her. She had laughed and laughed when Uncle Daeron attempted to sweep her off her feet and carry her away. She was smiling, and then crying, and then laughing, when Aunt Shaera embraced her. And she had smiled that special smile that was supposed to be only for Steffon when they visited Uncle Jaehaerys in his bedchamber. Uncle Jaehaerys had looked so ill and so miserable that Steffon did not mind his mother parting with her special smile for someone else, just this  _one_  time.

“That is your uncle Duncan,” his mother said to Steffon, her eyes fixed on the man who was fast approaching them, her voice low, her mouth still smiling that smile Steffon did not care for.

Tugging at his mother’s dress, Steffon whispered, “Is he a bad man?”

Frowning, his mother hissed, “Of course not. Why would you think that?” But Uncle Duncan had already reached them, and Steffon did not have the chance to reply.

He did not  _seem_  like a bad man, this uncle who knelt down on one knee and put his hand on top of Steffon’s head.   

“Do you know who I am, young man?”

Steffon glanced at his mother, who gave him a slight nod. “You are my uncle, Prince Duncan,” he replied.

Uncle Duncan said nothing at first, his eyes never leaving Steffon’s face. “You look so much like your father did, when he was a boy. I thought time had somehow been rolled back, years and years.”

“Did you know my father when he was a boy?” 

“Yes, I did. He was a royal page, your father, serving in this very castle. He was older than you are now, of course, when he came here. Seven, if I recall,” Uncle Duncan replied.

“Eight,” Mother interjected. “Ormund was eight when he came to King’s Landing, the same age I was when I was sent to Storm’s End.”

Wide-eyed with curiosity, Steffon asked, “So you went to Storm’s End, and then Father went to King’s Landing, all at the same time?” So strange, these switching of houses. Why couldn’t they each stay in their own house, with their own family?

“No, not at the same time,” his mother replied. “Your father is older than I am, you know that. When he came to King’s Landing, I was only two.”

“It was right after your grandfather’s coronation. That was when your father came to King’s Landing,” Uncle Duncan said.

“And then he went home to Storm’s End when you went there, Mother? Did you go together?”

There was a long silence punctuated with awkward glances between Steffon’s mother and his uncle. His mother was the one who finally spoke. “No, your father went back to Storm’s End a short while before that, because his father, your grandfather Lord Lyonel, needed him.”

“He was my squire at the time,” Uncle Duncan said. “Do you know what a squire is?”

Steffon nodded. “Father has three, but only one came with us here.”  

Duncan raised himself up, his eyes finally meeting his sister’s gaze. He asked, his voice tentative, hesitant, “Are you well, dearest sister?”

“I am,” Rhaelle replied. “I am  _always_  well,” she added, determinedly.

The look on Rhaelle’s face seemed to have discouraged Duncan from asking or saying anything more. He put his hands on Steffon’s shoulders, and with a kindly smile, said, “I hope you will enjoy your visit to King’s Landing, young Steffon.”

_Why don’t you like him, Mother? He’s nice to me._

“Thank you,” Steffon finally replied, after his mother’s hand squeezed his palm, prodding him. 

Steffon turned around to watch his uncle walking away, and spotted him being met by a woman in the courtyard. Uncle Duncan took the woman’s hands, both of them, with a gentleness that seemed strange in a man who looked so strong. He whispered something into her ear. She had the saddest look on her face, and yet, Steffon thought she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. 

“Who is that?” He asked his mother, pointing at the woman whose hand was now grazing Uncle Duncan’s cheek, tenderly, as if he was a sad child who needed her consoling.

His mother turned to look, and she flinched. Yet she could not take her eyes off the two figures, staring and staring until they started walking away and could not be seen any longer.

“Who is that woman, Mother?” Steffon asked again.

“ _Lady_ Jenny,” his mother finally replied, her eyes now squeezed shut. “Duncan’s wife.”

“She is the most beautiful woman in the world,” Steffon declared, with awe.

“She  _would_  be, wouldn’t she,” his mother muttered under her breath. “How they  _love_  the Prince of Dragonflies and his Jenny, all the singers and storytellers spinning their yarns. Such  _pure_  love, such  _sacrifice_. Everything they gave up for the sake of their one true love; his crown, her freedom to roam as she pleases. That may well be, but what about the price  _other_  people had to pay? No one cared about  _that_.”

Steffon did not understand, and the tone of his mother’s voice was frightening him. “Mother?” He called out. 

His mother finally turned her attention to him. “You must never say anything to your father about Lady Jenny,” she warned him. “And certainly not about her being the most beautiful woman in the world.”

“Why not?”

“Just remember that.”

Steffon blurted out, “Did Father want to marry her too?”  

Mother actually laughed, but it was an unpleasant sound, not at all like her usual laughter. “No, it’s not that at all.”

“Then why?”

“I will tell you later, when we get home.”

“No, tell me  _now_!” Steffon insisted. He was tired and cranky. It had been a long, exhausting day in a strange place, his father was nowhere to be seen, and his mother was like a frightening stranger saying and doing things she had never done at home. Even her  _laugh_  was different. Home. He wanted to be  _home_. And more than anything, he wanted  _Mother_  to be Mother again. The sob escaped him.

His mother sighed, beckoning Dalla to come closer. “This boy needs a nap,” she said, handing Steffon to his nursemaid without a second glance, without even a hug. She would have hugged him at home, no matter how annoyed she was with him at the time. Fresh tears assailed the boy, and it was Dalla who soothed him, saying in her sing-songy voice, “There, there. Now, now.”

\---------------------

When Steffon woke from his nap, opening his eyes slowly, he saw that he was not in the room he had been given to sleep in Maegor’s Holdfast, the room next to his parents’ room, the room where Dalla slept in a cot next to his bed. This was  _their_  room, Mother’s and Father’s.

His mother was in the room, talking in a low voice to someone. Not his father. It was a woman’s voice replying to his mother. Steffon opened his eyes wider, and saw Aunt Shaera and Mother, sitting around the table, eating, drinking and talking. He spotted a basket filled to the brim with peaches on the table. Steffon  _loved loved loved_  peaches, but they were not always easy to come by. Peaches were grown in the Reach, not the Stormlands, Father had told him, when Steffon asked why they could not have peaches every day.

And now here Mother was, with bountiful of peaches on the table, and she was calmly eating a slice of cake and talking with her sister seemingly without a care in the world, without even bothering to wake Steffon up. Mother  _knew_  how much he loved peaches. Sulking, Steffon closed his eyes and pretended to sleep again, only to open them again from time to time, spying to see if his mother had finally remembered that she had a son who loved peaches.

_How could you, Mother?_

He could hear the conversation between Mother and Aunt Shaera well enough, without really understanding most of it. They were talking about someone who was not yet with child, after twelve long years of marriage.

“Not even a miscarriage?” Mother asked.

 “No,  _nothing_.  _At all_ ,” Aunt Shaera replied, with emphasis.

“I suppose it does not matter in the slightest,” Rhaelle said. “Duncan will not be king now. He is not desperate for an heir.” She paused, before continuing, “They seem happy enough, at any rate. Still madly in love, I suppose?”

Shaera hesitated, her eyes watching her sister warily. “Will it make you feel better, if I tell you that they argue and bicker every day, that they cannot stand the sight of each other?”

“Is that the truth?”

Sighing, Shaera said, “No.”

“It will not make me feel any better, even if that is the truth.”  

“Then what will, Rhaelle?” Shaera asked, her hand reaching out to her sister, her eyes glistening with tears.

Quickly changing the subject, Rhaelle said, “ _You_  have given Jaehaerys an heir. The succession is secure.”

Shaera disagreed. “One son is hardly secure. What if something happens to Aerys?”

“Is he often unwell, like his father?”

“No, he is in very rude health, thank the gods. But still, you never know. Daeron the Good thought the succession was secure. He had an heir he was proud of, one he made his Hand and placed a great deal of trust in. And yet Baelor Breakspear died suddenly in a foolish mishap, and Baelor’s own sons died along with Daeron himself in the Great Spring Sickness. Thank the gods Daeron still had other sons and grandsons. But what if Baelor had been the only one?”    

“There is still your Rhaella,” Rhaelle pointed out.

“They will  _never_ allow a woman to sit on the Iron Throne. You know all the precedents. The Great Council that made Father king never even considered Uncle Daeron’s daughter.”

“She was simple-minded, poor Vaella. Your Rhaella is not.”

“No, they will consider our brothers Duncan and Daeron before they ever consider Rhaella. And both Duncan and Daeron are unlikely to have heirs of their own. What then? Will a Blackfyre sit on the Iron Throne after all?”

“Daeron … well, Daeron might still marry and father a son,” Rhaelle said.

Shaera gave her sister a meaningful look. “That will  _never_  happen, and we both know the reason. Let’s not pretend otherwise.”

Steffon was confused. First, Mother and Aunt Shaera were talking about Daeron whose daughter was not chosen for something, and then about Daeron who was never going to marry. Could you have a child if you were not married?

(Later, back at Storm’s End, Steffon would ask Maester Cressen this very question. The maester side-stepped the question about having a child without marrying, and instead wrote down a list of all the different Daerons, past and present. There were more than just two, it turned out. A lot more. Uncle Harbert looked on with pity when he saw Steffon pondering over the list. “Wait until you get to all the different Aegons. That was the bane of my existence during my lessons!”)

His mother was speaking again. “That Redwyne girl Daeron was supposed to marry, she was wed to Luthor Tyrell not long ago.”

Shaera reddened. “I know. We were invited to the wedding.”

“We?”

 “The king and queen, of course, but also the Prince of Dragonstone and his wife.”

“Did you go?”

 “Yes, we all did. Father said we  _must_ , or the Tyrells and the Redwynes would take it as an insult. And after what happened before … well, the crown could ill afford that.”

“Daeron was not invited?”

“No.”

There was silence for a long while, as Rhaelle brushed away crumbs of lemon cake from her dress, and Shaera’s hand tinkered with a peach, without her mouth actually taking a bite.

“I’m not sorry I did it," Shaera announced suddenly, her voice defiant.

 _Did what?_  Steffon wondered. Had she taken the peaches from the kitchen without asking the cook’s permission, like Steffon did that one time?

“Looking at Luthor Tyrell up there on the dais, looking all smug and leering and red-faced, thinking with horror, I could have been married to  _that_. He looked like he could not  _wait_  to put his hand down my dress, when I was seated next to him during the feast celebrating the four betrothals. And I was only eleven at the time!” Shaera exclaimed.

“It was good that Father thought to keep one daughter unbetrothed, for use in rainy days,” Rhaelle said. “Be honest, sister,” she continued, her voice very hard suddenly. “Even if it was not Luthor Tyrell you were betrothed to, and someone you found less repulsive, you still would have wanted only one man, and no one else.”

Shaera sighed, deeply. “It has caused Father much trouble. We both know that, Jaehaerys and I. And when Jaehaerys is king, he will have to deal with it too.”

“Would you still have done it, knowing what you know now, knowing all the repercussions?”

“Have you ever asked  _Duncan_  that question?”

“No.”

“Why not? What  _he_  did directly affected your life. What Jaehaerys and I did –“

“I do not care to listen to his excuses and his justifications, his regret and his remorse.” Rhaelle repeated the question. “Would you, Shaera?” 

“Gods forgive me, but I would. I would elude my guardians and run away with Jaehaerys a thousand times over. I have only ever loved him. I could never love anyone else. Do you understand that?”

“No,” Rhaelle said. “How could I?”

“But you liked him! When Ormund was serving as Father’s page, and later when he was Duncan’s squire, you used to watch him, and make up stories about him. And he used to speak to you. Oh he was too shy to speak to me, but he spoke to you often enough. He made you laugh, I remember that. You used to ride on his shoulders and pretended that he was Balerion the Black Dread.”   

“I was a child. A little girl. He was in awe of his older sister, and he missed his little brother, but he never had a little sister.”

“Was he so very different, when you came to Storm’s End?”

“ _Everything_  was different.  _I_  was different. How could it not be, after what took place?”  

“It could have still happened, naturally, in due time, you being betrothed to Ormund, even without … even without the whole business with Duncan and Jenny. Father and Lord Lyonel were fast friends in those days. Lord Lyonel’s daughter as the future Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, and Father’s daughter as the future Lady of Storm’s End, that notion would have appealed to them.”

“Indeed. But it did not happen that way. Sometimes I think … that is what I resent the most, that it could have been so very different, our betrothal, our marriage. It was a house of misery and bitterness Father sent me to, when he sent me to Storm’s End. And I was not the only one miserable; they  _all_  were, all the Baratheons. What chance did we  _ever_  have for happiness, Ormund and I, with that kind of beginning?”

“It is not too late,” Shaera said, plaintively. “We make our own happiness, sweet sister.”

“That’s easy enough for  _you_  to say. I –“ Rhaelle gasped. She had seen Steffon’s eyes wide open, watching her. She stood up abruptly, walking towards the bed.

“How long have  _you_  been awake, my naughty boy?”

“I am  _not_  a naughty boy,” Steffon said, still sulking.

“Oh? So that was not a tantrum you were about the throw in the hall earlier?”

“Don’t tell Father,” Steffon whispered. “ _Please_?  _Please_ , Mother? I will not say anything to Father about Lady Jenny, I promise!”           

His mother closed her eyes, sighing. “What am I teaching you?” She muttered under her breath. Then, her voice louder, she said, “I will not tell your father, but only if you promise to behave from now on.”

“I will,” Steffon promised.

Gazing at her son’s face, Rhaelle asked, “Did I frighten you, before?

Steffon nodded, tentatively.

“I’m sorry. This place … it does strange things to me.”

“But this is your  _home_.”

“It was. It’s not anymore.”

Smiling, Steffon said, “That’s right. Your home is with me, in Storm’s End.”

Eyebrow raised, Rhaelle asked, “Only with you?”

“With Father too, of course,” Steffon quickly added. Then, leaning into his mother’s ear, he whispered, “Can I have a peach?”

His mother laughed. “Of course.”

Steffon was happily and busily eating his second peach when there was a knock on the door.  

“That will be Aerys and Rhaella,” Aunt Shaera said. “Their lesson usually finishes at this time.”

A boy and a girl walked in, accompanied by a woman that Aunt Shaera told to wait outside.  _Their_  Dalla, it must be, Steffon thought, but this woman was older than Dalla, and she looked scary, like the wizened old witch from the picture books. 

Cousin Aerys was taller than Steffon, but then he was two years older, so it was as it should be. Cousin Rhaella was older than Steffon by a year, Mother had told him, but she was slighter, and shorter. They both had hair like Mother, like Aunt Shaera. Hair the color of silver-gold, Mother said, not white, not really, it only looked that way under a certain light.

Even their eyes were the same. They all looked like a family, the four of them. He was the only one different in the room, Steffon realized, his gaze switching from one face to another. His hair, something Steffon had always been proud of – “it’s really, really black, not just dark” - suddenly seemed conspicuously out of place. 

 _I want Father_! Where  _was_  his father? Steffon had barely seen his father since they arrived in King’s Landing. “Your father has many things to attend to,” Mother had told him. 

His mother was looking at Steffon meaningfully, her finger pointing at the basket filled with peaches. Steffon took one peach, and offered it to Rhaella. To the lady first, his father had taught him, that was the chivalrous thing to do. Rhaella took the peach, thanking her cousin quietly. She was shy too; somehow that made Steffon feel better.

“Can’t  _I_  have a peach too?”Aerys asked. “Is it only for my sister?”

Steffon could not decide if Aerys was being sulky, or if he was making a jape. But then Aerys laughed, so Steffon decided it was a jape after all.

“Of course you can,” Steffon replied, handing Aerys a peach. “This is your home, you can have as many as you like. Well,  _maybe_  not as many as you like, because if you eat too many peaches it will make you sick to your stomach. It happened to me once. Maester Cressen had to make me drink a potion that tasted _really_ ,  _really_  horrible to make me stop throwing up.”

There was a long silence greeting this. Steffon looked down at his hand. Had he talked too much? “Slow down,” his mother sometimes said, “you’re talking too fast.”

“I like you,” Aerys finally declared, solemnly, as if he had been examining Steffon, carefully, to see if he would do after all. 

“Take Steffon to your playroom,” Aunt Shaera told her children. “You can show him all your toys and your books.”

As the door was closing, Steffon saw his mother and Aunt Shaera talking again, their heads almost touching, the expression on both their faces grave.

\---------------------

The playroom was very big, bigger than Steffon’s own in Storm’s End. There were toys of all sorts, but also many books, the ones with pictures and big, bold words below it, but also the ones with only words, small, cramped words with not enough space between the letters.   

“Can you read?” Rhaella asked.

“Yes, I can,” Steffon replied, proudly.

Rhaella chose a book – one with pictures and big, bold words, Steffon was relieved to see. “Should we read this one together? It’s about a family of rabbits,” she said.

“Do rabbits _have_  family?” Steffon asked. He remembered eating rabbit stew once. The meat was chewy and Steffon did not much care for it. Cats had families; they made kittens. And dogs made puppies, although Steffon liked kittens a lot more than puppies. But  _rabbits_?

“Yes,” Rhaella replied, “rabbits have families too. See, this is the father rabbit, this is the mother rabbit, and these are their five children. Just like Grandmother and Grandfather, with their five children.”

Pointing at the biggest of the baby rabbits, Steffon said, “And this is my uncle Jaehaerys, your father.”

Aerys, who had been darting about the room restlessly, rearranging his tin soldiers as his sister was patiently sitting with their little cousin, finally came to sit by them. “No, that’s not Father,” he said. “That’s Uncle Duncan.”

“Why is it Uncle Duncan?” Steffon asked.

“Because he’s the biggest, and the oldest,” Aerys replied.

“No, he’s not,” Steffon blurted out.

“Of course he is,” Aerys said.

Remembering the three uncles he had met, Steffon conceded, “He’s the biggest and the tallest, certainly. But he  _can’t_  be the oldest. If he is, he would be king after Grandfather.”

“My father will be king after Grandfather,” Aerys announced, with pride. “And I will be king after my father.”

“I know,” Steffon said, “Mother told me so. So Uncle Duncan can’t be the oldest after all. The oldest son inherits, that’s what my father said.”

“Well,  _my_ father said –“ Aerys began.

“Show Steffon your new wooden swords, Aerys,” Rhaella hurriedly said. Turning to Steffon, she said, “He has two, but he will not let me touch either of them.”

“They are very special,” Aerys said. “They are carved to match the Targaryen ancestral swords, Blackfyre and Dark Sister.”

“Is Blackfyre for you, and Dark Sister for your sister?” Steffon asked.

“Why would a girl need a sword?” Aerys scoffed.

“Dark Sister was Queen Visenya’s sword,” Rhaella said. “ _She_  was a girl too.”

“She was a fierce queen and she had a dragon,” Aerys said.” You’re only a princess.” 

Aerys showed Steffon the swords with great ceremony. “The man who carved them is very skilled, my father said.”

“They are … they are …” Steffon did not know the right word. Could you call a sword ‘beautiful’, even a wooden one?

“They are my most prized possessions,” Aerys said. “At least until the blacksmith is done forging a  _real_  sword for me. That will be even  _more_  magnificent.”   

They sparred, Steffon and Aerys, using the two wooden swords. Aerys was more skillful, but Steffon was quicker on his feet. Or at least he was, until he tripped on a bulge on the carpet and fell down. In a flash, Aerys had his sword on Steffon’s throat. “Yield,” he commanded. “Do you yield?”  

“No.  _Never.”_

The door opened suddenly, revealing Uncle Daeron with his hands folded over his chest. “I heard such a ruckus. Well, well, what do we have here?” He asked, looking amused.

“We’re only playing,” Aerys said quickly, holding out his hand to raise Steffon up from the floor. “Show Steffon that move, Uncle Daeron.” Turning to Steffon, Aerys said, “He can fight with both hands, at the same time.”

“With  _two_  swords?” Steffon asked.

Aerys nodded. The boys handed over both swords to Daeron, who proceeded to dazzle them with his skills.   

“Uncle Daeron was only eight when he went to battle with Grandfather,” Aerys said. “My father and Uncle Duncan went too, of course, but they were older. I wish _I_ could fight a real battle, with a real sword.”

“You know your mother does not like hearing that. We should be rejoicing that there is peace in the land once more,” Daeron said.  

“But  _you_  like battles and fighting, uncle. There is nothing else in the world like being wedded to your sword, you said.”

Daeron laughed, but he looked uncomfortable. “Where did you hear that?”

Aerys would not say.

And then Dalla came to take Steffon away. “You must wash and change for the feast tonight,” she reminded him, when Steffon pleaded to stay a little longer. As he was leaving, Aerys suddenly and abruptly handed him the smaller sword.

“Here, take it,” Aerys said. “You can have my Dark Sister.”

Steffon was astonished. “Really?”

“Yes. If I had a brother, I would give it to him, but a cousin is almost as good.”

Steffon really, really, really wanted the sword, but he hesitated, glancing at Rhaella. What about Rhaella? She was Aerys’ sister. Steffon was only a cousin, and one Aerys had just met, at that.

To his relief, Rhaella was smiling, not frowning. “Take it,” she told Steffon. “It is not often Aerys is generous with his things. This is one for the history books.”

Steffon took the sword, thanking his cousin. After Aerys had bounded away ahead of them, Rhaella whispered to Steffon, “I never wanted the sword. I don’t  _like_  fighting. But I was annoyed that Aerys kept saying that girls never know what to do with one.  _Some_  do. Queen Visenya knew what to do with a sword. She was even better than her brother.”      

“She was?”

“Once, Queen Visenya and King Aegon - the first king Aegon, that is, not our grandfather, he’s the fifth – once they were attacked in the streets of King’s Landing by Dornish assassins, and  _she_  was the one who saved his life, with her sword.”

“Did your maester teach you that?”

No, I read it myself, in a book,” Rhaella said.  

\---------------------

His father was waiting by the door when Steffon entered his parents’ room, after Dalla had properly scrubbed and cleaned and dressed him, fit for a king’s feast. “I gave you a bath just this morning. What have you been doing with your cousins to get so dirty again?” Dalla grumbled. 

“We were playing,” Steffon said. “Children play, that’s what we doooo,” he announced, in a sing-songy voice.

Now he rushed to his father’s side. His father gazed at him from head to toe, then finally smiled, ruffling Steffon’s hair. “You met your cousins, your mother told me.”

“I did.”

“Do you like them?”

Steffon nodded. “Aerys gave me a present,” he volunteered.

“What present?” His mother asked, from across the room.

“A sword,” Steffon replied. “It’s in my room.”

 “A sword?!” His mother raised her voice.

“Not a real sword,” Steffon said. “A wooden sword, for sparring. It’s Dark Sister, only not really Dark Sister.”  _My_  Dark Sister, Aerys had called it.  

“Oh? Queen Visenya’s sword?” Father asked.  

“Do you know about Queen Visenya, Father?”  

“Of course. Queen Visenya, King Aegon and Queen Rhaenys. Together with Orys Baratheon, they made Westeros into a single kingdom. King Aegon was the first king to sit on the throne, the one you saw this morning.”

“Where Grandfather was sitting?”

 “Yes.”  

“Someone should have made Grandfather a more comfortable chair to sit on,” Steffon said. “Maybe the man who carved Aerys’ wooden swords could do it. He is very good, Aerys said.”

Ormund laughed. “It is not a chair, Steffon. It is a throne.”

“Can’t a throne be comfortable to sit on?” Steffon asked, puzzled.

“We will be late,” Rhaelle reminded her husband. “And you, curious boy, you can ask your grandfather that question yourself, tonight.”

Ormund frowned. “Rhaelle,” he said her name, just the one word.   

His wife met his gaze without faltering. “What?”

Ormund sighed.

“Oh yes, he  _will_  behave. Your son will not bring shame to House Baratheon.”

“We must tread carefully.”

“You worry too much,” Rhaelle said. “Shaera was shocked to see how much hair you have lost. What happened to all that luxurious hair, she wanted to know.”

Ormund smiled, ruefully. “I am too young to be turning bald. It runs in the family, it seems.”

“I don’t remember your father …“

“It skips a generation, supposedly.”

Mother and Father were both smiling, but it was over all too quickly, because then they had to hurry to get to the feast in time.

\---------------------

Father was seated beside Uncle Duncan, the two of them talking earnestly in low voices. Father used to squire for him, Uncle Duncan said. Steffon tried to imagine his father as a squire, helping Uncle Duncan with his cloak and his doublet, handing him his gloves, polishing his sword and his armor, attending him at tourneys and so on and so forth. He could not really imagine it, in truth. His father was  _Lord Baratheon_ , he had always been that, in Steffon’s eyes. He was Lord Baratheon even before Steffon was born, even before he married Mother.

Lady Jenny walked in and sat beside her husband. Steffon saw his father stiffening, turning his head down, concentrating on his soup. The conversation between Father and Uncle Duncan ceased altogether.

His grandmother was speaking to Steffon. “Your mother told me you celebrated your own nameday very recently.”

 “My fifth,” Steffon said. “And how old are  _you_ , Grandmother? Are you very old?”

Grandmother laughed heartily. “If you want to win a lady’s heart, you must never ask her age,” Grandmother said, her eyes twinkling. Her eyes were black, black as night, like her hair. Not blue, like Steffon’s eyes. The witch in Steffon’s picture books had black hair and black eyes too, but somehow, Grandmother did not look like a witch at all.

“I will remember that,” Steffon promised, solemnly.

There were so many dishes to try, so many delicacies to tempt him. Mother even allowed him to take a sip of wine, but not the wine in her own goblet. “This is Dornish wine. It’s too strong for a boy.” She gave him something else that tasted very sweet. Sickly sweet. Steffon grimaced, not liking the taste at all.   

Uncle Daeron noticed. Grinning, he said, “Perhaps Steffon would like the taste of ale better. Shall I give him a sip, Rhaelle?”

Mother rolled her eyes. “Don’t you start,” she told Uncle Daeron.

That was when Steffon noticed Uncle Duncan staring at them. He was smiling, but he still looked sad. His smile was all wrong, Steffon decided. Mother should teach Uncle Duncan how to smile the right way.   

Father was talking to Grandfather, something about levies and taxes. Lady Jenny was listening to Aunt Shaera, while carefully cutting up the meat on her plate into little pieces. Steffon stared and stared, and continued staring.  _Lady Jenny_ , Mother had said to call her. Why was she not Aunt Jenny?

Suddenly, he felt his legs being kicked under the table.

“What are you staring at?” Aerys whispered. “What is so interesting? Tell me.  _Tell me_.”  

“Nothing,” Steffon said, flushing red. He turned to chatter with Rhaella and Aerys. Strange, it felt like he had known them for a long time. What would it be like, to have a brother, or a sister? He would have to share many, many things with this brother or sister - Mother’s special smile, to name just one - but perhaps he would not mind so much.                 

Later, he heard his father’s voice calling out his name, but it turned out his father was still talking to Grandfather. Then suddenly, Grandfather  _was_  calling for him. “Come here, child.”

Steffon looked at his mother, who nodded, but Aunt Shaera was the one who stood up, took Steffon’s hand and brought him to Grandfather.

Grandfather asked him many questions, about Storm’s End, about his daily routine, about his friends, even about Dalla. Grandfather had a kindly smile and he sounded genuinely interested in Steffon’s replies, but Steffon was painfully aware of his father sitting there looking tense and worried, so his answers were all very brief, afraid that he might say something wrong.

After a while, Grandfather asked, “I am not that scary, am I?”

Steffon shook his head. “No,” he replied, and then suddenly Mother was by his side, saying that it was time he went to bed.     

\---------------------

His parents argued all the way back to their room. They did not use any names, only  _he_ ,  _she_ ,  _him_  and  _her_ , so Steffon was not certain who they were arguing about.

“You could talk to him so easily, as if nothing had happened, as if  _he_  had done nothing wrong, and yet you could not even look at her. Is it more  _her_  fault than his?”

“Of course not. He was the one who broke a betrothal, not her.”

“Then?”

“I look at her, and I see where my sister should have been. I see my sister laughing, thriving, happy. And most of all, alive.”

“Blame my brother for that.”

“I do not see  _you_  going out of your way to be friendly to her.”

“Why should I? But at least I do not pretend that everything is still just the same, with my father and my brother.”   

“You have the luxury to be honest; you are their blood after all. I am not.”

“Your father never pretended. He showed them  _exactly_  how he felt.”

“He showed  _you_  exactly how he felt too. Would you rather than I am more like my father?”

“No! Of course not. How could you even think that, knowing the way he treated me?” 

“Then what?” 

Dalla grabbed hold of Steffon’s hand, pulling him towards his room. Steffon was about to protest, but Dalla shushed him.

Later in bed, he could not fall asleep, tossing and turning, tossing and turning, over and over again.

“Do you want a song?” Dalla asked.

Steffon shook his head.

“What about a story?”

Steffon shook his head again.  

Then he must have fallen asleep after all, because it was the loud thunder that woke him. Dalla was still sleeping soundly. Another thunder, louder this time. Dalla snored. Steffon ran to the door connecting his room with his parents’ room. He opened the door.

“Mother,” he called out. There was no reply. He could see the bed, even in the dark. He walked towards it. But his mother was not in bed, only his father, brows furrowing, his fists tightly clenching the sheets, but his eyes were squeezed shut.    

“Steffon?” His mother’s voice, calling out for him. She was sitting on a chair facing the bed, watching Father, as if standing guard.

Steffon went to her, sat on his mother’s lap. “Is Father awake?” He whispered.

“No, he’s sleeping.”

“It was loud, the thunder,” Steffon said, after a while.

“Dalla never woke?”

“She snores.”  

Mother smiled. “You are old enough to sleep on your own now. We will try that when we return to Storm’s End.”  

“Did  _you_  have a Dalla, when you were a little girl?”

“I did. Her name was Mariya.”

‘Did she come with you, when you went to Storm’s End?”

“No.”    

“Why not?”

“They wouldn’t let her.”

“They?”

“I pleaded and pleaded, but they said no.”

“Who, Mother? Who said no?”

Sighing, she said, “No one. It doesn’t matter now. It was a long time ago.”

“Mother?”

“Yes?”

“Are you angry with Father? Did he do something wrong?”

“I am afraid for him.”

“Why?”

“Because you can only pretend not to hate for so long, before –“

“Before?”

She closed her eyes, taking a deep breath. When her eyes finally opened, she had that special smile for Steffon. “Oh, don’t listen to me. I’m just an old woman rambling about nonsense.”

“You are not old,” Steffon protested.

“Oh? And yet you think Lady Jenny is more beautiful than me,” his mother whispered into Steffon’s ear.

“I never said  _that_!”  

“You said she’s the most beautiful woman in the world.” This, said in a whisper too.

“Yes, but … but … I don’t mean  _you_ , Mother. You’re different.”

“Different? Is that a praise, or an insult?”

“You’re special.”

“I am, am I?”

“You’re my mother.”


	3. and who are you, the proud lord said, that I must bow so low?

For days and days after his return from King’s Landing, Steffon delighted in regaling everyone in Storm’s End with various tales of his Targaryen relations. It seemed almost miraculous to a boy who previously had known ‘ _family_ ’ to consist only of his mother, his father, and his uncle Harbert, to suddenly be surrounded by various uncles, aunts and cousins; not to mention a grandmother and a grandfather who were flesh and blood and living, not merely stories and remembrances sketched out by the sons they had left behind. (For how could memory - and somebody else’s memory at that - ever hoped to compete with the real thing, in the eyes of a child?)

Uncle Harbert, however, was noticeably less than eager to hear Steffon’s myriad tales. He pretended not to hear, when the boy prattled on about this uncle or that cousin. He would claim that an urgent task was awaiting him, when Steffon endeavored to query him about how well he had known Uncle Daeron. (Uncle Daeron had mentioned being in the lists with Uncle Harbert at various tourneys over the years, and had asked to be remembered to Steffon’s uncle from the Baratheon side.)  He even went so far as to walk away, abruptly, when Steffon started describing his Targaryen grandfather, sitting regally on the Iron Throne.

It all came to a head during supper, one night, when Uncle Harbert had been drinking heavily, downing one goblet of wine after another, sitting silent and tight-lipped while the conversation went on around him.

“Take care that your son does not grow to be more dragon than stag, brother,” Harbert finally spoke, his voice dangerously low, his eyes scrutinizing his brother’s face, interrupting Steffon’s long recitation of all the food they had been served during the feast in King’s Landing. (The spun sugar treats, shaped to imitate the dragon skulls hanging on the walls of the throne room, had particularly delighted Steffon. “I ate  _three_  dragons!” Steffon declared, emphasizing the number with his waving fingers.)

“My son will grow to be his own man,” Ormund replied, returning his brother’s gaze with a sharp glance of his own.

“I am not a dragon, or a stag. I’m a  _boy_ ,” Steffon protested.  

Ormund laughed, but it was an uneasy laugh. A laugh to deflect the tension palpable in the room, rather than one of true merriment. 

Addressing his nephew, Harbert said, “You will not be a boy forever, lad. It is time you learn that the dragons are too high and mighty for the likes of us. Common stags are never good enough for those  _glorious_  and  _special_ creatures.” Turning to his brother, Harbert continued, “Even our elder sister was not good enough for them, glorious and awe-inspiring as she had always been in our eyes.”

Her voice soft, but still sounding very determined, Rhaelle reminded her good-brother, “ _This_  Targaryen  married a Baratheon.”

“Because you  _had_  to,” Harbert scoffed. “If you had been given the chance to get out of the betrothal, you would have done so, like all your other siblings with their trails of broken betrothals. But sadly for you, good-sister, our lord father had learned his lesson by then. He knew better than to put his faith and his trust on Targaryen’s promise, on Targaryen’s word of  _honor.”_

His face red, Ormund declared, through gritted teeth and clenched jaw, “That is the Lady of Storm’s End you are addressing. A princess of the blood. My lady wife. Your good-sister. Apologize, now.”

“Must a stag bow to a dragon, always?” challenged Harbert. “Our lord father did not believe so.”

“Our lord father was the reason we are in this mess in the first place,” Ormund snapped. “If King Aegon had been a different kind of king, had been altogether a more ruthless man, House Baratheon could have been wiped out of existence after Father’s failed rebellion. _Death_  is the punishment for treason. Have you forgotten that? Our heads stuck on pikes, decorating the Red Keep, is that your wish?”

Harbert set down his wine goblet on the table with a loud thud. “Father’s loyalty and leal service to King Aegon had  _never_  been in doubt before Prince Duncan dishonored our sister!”

“Even so, a rebellion is still a rebellion,” Ormund countered. “There is a price to be paid, for everything. And we have been paying it for years. We are still paying it now, all of us, your good-sister included.”

“Father was  _twice_  the man you could ever hope to be, brother,” Harbert proclaimed.

It happened so fast; Steffon’s father standing up, his hand reaching out to slap Uncle Harbert’s cheek. Steffon was too shocked to make a sound. For a moment, Uncle Harbert looked as if he might retaliate, his fist clenched tight, his face flushed red, but it was Steffon’s mother who put herself between the two Baratheon brothers.

“What would your lady mother think, if she could see you now?” Rhaelle asked. “How much grief would this have caused her, to see her sons coming to blows, to see the boys she raised so lovingly so at odds with each other?”

Uncle Harbert dropped his raised fist, opened his mouth as if he was preparing to speak, but then he walked out of the room abruptly, before any word could come out from his mouth.

Mother’s hand was on Father’s shoulder. “Ormund,” she said, just the one word, and nothing else.

“Take Steffon to his room,” Father said, not meeting Mother’s eyes.

When Mother hesitated, looking as if she was unwilling to leave Father alone, Father said, “Rhaelle. Please.”

Steffon was the only one still sitting down, staring at his plate, not daring to look up in case the tears pooling in his eyes would fall down his cheeks. He had never seen Father so angry before. He had seen Uncle Harbert losing his temper quite a few times, true, but always with other people, never with  _Father_. And he had never heard Uncle Harbert talking to Mother in that sneering, unpleasant voice before.

Mother held out her hand, and Steffon reached for it wordlessly. They walked out of the room quietly, Steffon holding on tightly to his mother’s hand. He glanced back, once, just the once, to see his father sitting down heavily, his head in his hands.

Back in his room, Mother handed Steffon to Dalla, telling her in a distracted voice, “Put him to bed, quickly. He has had too much excitement tonight.”

Mother kissed Steffon on both cheeks, and she was about to turn and leave the room, when Steffon tugged at her hair, beckoning her closer, whispering, “Is Uncle Harbert angry because I was talking too much about my other uncles? I talked about  _him_  to Uncle Daeron, and to Grandfather. Grandfather said he used to bounce Uncle Harbert on his knees when Uncle Harbert was a babe. But Uncle Harbert did not want to hear anything about  _that_ , when I tried to tell him. I haven’t forgotten about him, just because I have met those  _other_ uncles.”

Mother sighed, one hand busy smoothing Steffon’s hair, the other clenching the sheet. “It is not your fault, Steffon.”

“Then whose fault is it?”

“The gods, probably,” Mother muttered, quietly, under her breath, but Steffon heard her nonetheless. “Perhaps it is better not to mention your trip to King’s Landing, when Uncle Harbert is around,” Mother continued, in her normal voice this time.

Steffon nodded. He would have been willing to say anything – or  _not_  say anything, in this case – to avoid seeing Father and Uncle Harbert acting the way they did tonight.

\---------------------

His father and Uncle Harbert were both absent at breakfast the next morning. “Lord Ormund rode for Blackhaven not long after dawn, Your Grace,” Maester Cressen told Steffon’s mother, when he was summoned.

“ _My lady_ , Maester. Here, in this castle, I am the Lady of Storm’s End, not a princess of House Targaryen.” After a pause, Rhaelle asked, “Did Ser Harbert ride out with him?”

“No, my lady. Lord Ormund took only a few household knights and men-at-arms with him. Ser Harbert is in the training yard. Do you wish to summon him, my lady?”

“No,” Rhaelle swiftly replied. “I will leave him to his tasks. And you too, Maester.”

Cressen took the hint and quickly departed.

Recalling his mother’s words the night before, Steffon asked, “What was Father’s lady mother like? Was she like you, Mother?”

Steffon had been told how his Baratheon grandmother and grandfather died. “My mother caught a fever, and my father would not leave her side throughout her illness. They died within three days of one another,” Steffon’s father had told him.

He had been told that Lord Lyonel and Lady Shireen were cousins, that they had known each other all their lives, having been born only seven days apart. His father and his uncle Harbert had spoken of their lady mother often, more often that they spoke of their lord father, certainly; but before last night, Steffon could not remember hearing his mother ever talking about her good-mother.

“She was not like me at all, Lady Shireen. She always had a smile on her face, even when she was angry, or even when she was sad.  _Especially_  when she was angry, in truth,” Rhaelle replied.  

“Was she fond of you?”

“I don’t know. She was not an easy woman to read, or to know, in truth. She was never unkind to me. She never had a sharp word to say to me, and she tried to protect me as best she could, but I do not know if that was due to fondness, or because she thought it was her duty. Either way, I was grateful to her, but I could not claim that I knew her at all, or that she ever truly knew me in return.”

“She protected you? From what?” Steffon asked.  

Ignoring Steffon’s question, Rhaelle said instead, “She loved her children, of that I am certain. She loved her husband, and was beloved by him in return. Their marriage reminded me of my own mother and father, and  _their_ marriage. Strange, to think that Ormund and I came from these people, from these marriages. And yet –“ here she broke abruptly, aware of having said too much, but she was relieved to find that her son was no longer paying attention to her words, too busy arranging the pieces of bread on his plate to resemble a dragon skull.

\---------------------

Later that morning, when Steffon was playing monsters and maidens with Dalla’s two youngest children, Alla and Allard, he caught a glimpse of his mother and Uncle Harbert, standing in the garden, talking quietly with solemn expressions on both their faces. (Alla was the only girl, so she  _should_  have been the maiden, but she was the oldest and the biggest of the three children, and always insisted that  _she_  had to be the monster doing the chasing, every time they played the game.)

Hiding from Alla behind an overgrown bush, Steffon overheard scraps of conversation between his mother and his uncle. 

Uncle Harbert was apologizing to Steffon’s mother. Why he had not done this last night, when Steffon’s father had told him to do so, was a mystery to the boy.  _Father would not have slapped you, if you said you were sorry, Uncle._  

“Do you hate them still?” Rhaelle asked. Then, amending her question, she asked, “Do you hate  _us_  still?”

“I never hated  _you_. You were an innocent, as much a pawn as my sister had been. How could I hate you? What kind of monster would that make me?”

“Yet when you see me being the Lady of Storm’s End, this woman with Targaryen blood flowing in her, sitting where your lady mother used to sit -”

“You have been the Lady of Storm’s End these past six years, since the day you recited your wedding vows, since the day my brother draped that Baratheon cloak over your shoulders. I have never begrudged you that, not for a moment, despite my rash and harsh words last night. It is not about that at all.”

“Then what is it really about?”

Harbert’s reply was jumbled and disorderly, full of pauses and incomplete phrases. “Steffon … the thought of Steffon so  _amazed_  to be surrounded by all those happy and flourishing Targaryens, when we, all of us  - even  _you_ , Rhaelle - when we had been … when we have been so … for so long … how could  _they_  live so freely, so happily, with such easy conscience, as if  _nothing_  had happened?”

Her hand grazing her good-brother’s palm, Rhaelle said, “I do know how you feel, for I feel it too, in my bones. But things are not always what they seem, Harbert. They have their own sorrow.” She paused, before adding, carefully, “And your brother has his own sorrow.”

Sighing heavily, Harbert said, “I did not mean it, truly, what I said about Ormund being less of a man than our father. But he  _infuriated_  me so, when he spoke of our dead father in that manner.”

“You might not have meant it, but he believed it nonetheless.”

“Oh surely he knows his own brother better than that! Surely he knows how prone I am to uttering rash words, when I am in my cups,” Harbert protested.  

“The trouble is, he half-believes it about himself. And his own brother saying it out loud only confirms it for him.”

Harbert shook his head violently. “No, you are  _wrong_ , good-sister. You could not be more wrong. Ormund has always been convinced that our father behaved in a reckless manner when he declared himself the Storm King, that Father had put pride before sound judgment, had endangered the safety of his family and gambled with the fate of House Baratheon for the sake of his fury. Ormund would have done things differently in the same situation, with caution and restraint foremost in his mind, and he would have been convinced that  _his_ way - not  _Father’s_  way - was the right way. Why would he think of himself as being less of a man than our lord father, if he believes that Father had been in the wrong?”

“Because a son might disagree with his father’s actions, might even go so far as to doubt the father’s sound judgment, while still caring deeply – perhaps too much – about what his father thought of him, while still fearing that his father had found him wanting, a grave disappointment as a son,” Rhaelle pointed out.


	4. The Laughing Boy

**251 AC**

The rookery was a special treat, a place Steffon was allowed to visit when he had done well learning his letters. Sitting on a stool much too big and too high for him, legs swinging, Steffon peppered Maester Cressen with questions while the latter tended to the birds.

“Are there brown ravens, Maester?”

“No,” Cressen replied, before qualifying it with, “At least, I have never come across one in the Seven Kingdoms. But who knows what wonders exist in other lands. There could be all sorts of creatures we could not even begin to imagine.”

Steffon chuckled, imagining ravens the color of his mother’s eyes, with streaks of blue, his father’s blue eyes, of course. No, he decided, it would be better if the raven was white, with alternating blue and purple streaks. It would be such a magnificent raven, the envy of all the other ravens.  

“What about white ravens, Maester? Do they exist in the Seven Kingdoms?”

“They do indeed, but they are very special, these white ravens.”

“How are they special?”

 “Well, they only fly from the Citadel, for one thing. And they only bring one kind of news. ”

“Good news?”

“They bring news of the changing of the seasons.”

That did not sound like good news to Steffon. He took a big bite of the peach he was holding and asked, “Is the Citadel your home, Maester?”

Cressen shook his head. “No. The Citadel is a special place for learning.”

“Where _is_ your home?”

“Storm’s End is my home now.”

“But where was it before?”

“Somewhere far away,” Maester Cressen replied, without further explanation. 

Maester Cressen did not like to speak of his life before he became a maester, Steffon had learned, from other questions he had asked the maester before. He quickly changed the subject, asking, “Can I go to the Citadel to learn too?”

“It is only for those learning to be a maester.”

“I want to be a maester too. Like you.”

Cressen’s expression turned solemn. “You cannot be a maester, Steffon. That path is not for you.”

“Why not? My mother has an uncle who is a maester. He used to be a prince, but now he is a maester. I’m not even a prince, only the son of a princess.”

“Your mother’s uncle is a younger son. You are your father’s only son and heir. You must wed, and you must father plenty of sons and daughters, to continue the line of House Baratheon.”

Steffon pouted. “I don’t know if I _want_ to have sons and daughters. What if they are naughty, and don’t listen to me?”

Glancing meaningfully at the peach in Steffon’s hand, Maester Cressen raised an eyebrow and said, “Oh?”

“ _I’m_ not naughty. Mother _gave_ this to me. I didn’t steal it, not like last time.” He still remembered the feel of the lash on his palm. It didn’t hurt, not really; Father had not struck him hard. Steffon had cried, though. Not because it had hurt, but because Father had looked like _he_ was hurting.  

A raven arrived, squawking loudly when Steffon came close enough to touch it. Maester Cressen gently caressed the bird and dispossessed it of the scroll it was carrying with practiced hand. The scroll disappeared into one of the many pockets on his robe. He carried Steffon off the stool and said, “Come. We must find your lord father.”

Steffon waved goodbye to the ravens. They seemed more interested in the newcomer among them, the raven just arriving from King’s Landing, than in the little boy who was leaving.

**_______________________**

Father frowned, after he read the letter.

“Princess Rhaelle –“ Maester Cressen began.

“I will break the news to her myself,” Father interrupted, turning quickly to leave.   

“What news?” Steffon asked. The raven came from King’s Landing, Maester Cressen had said. Perhaps they were invited to another feast. Mother might not like to go. She had not been too happy about going to King’s Landing the last time, even though Steffon had enjoyed that visit very much.

Father hesitated. Maester Cressen said, “My lord, shall I –“

“No, no. I will tell the boy myself. Later,” Father said, in a low voice, but Steffon could still hear him.

Boy? What boy? One of Father’s pages? But before Steffon could ask, Maester Cressen tempted him with the promise of showing him drawings of white ravens. Steffon promptly forgot all about the letter from King’s Landing.

**_______________________**

It was late, when Father finally came to Steffon’s room. Earlier, Steffon had eaten dinner alone, all by his lonesome self. Well, not _entirely_ alone. His nursemaid was there, but Dalla did not eat with him. She never did.

“Where is my mother?”

“Your lady mother is not well.”

“What about my father?”

“Your lord father is with her.”

“Can I see my mother?”

“No, not tonight.”        

“Why not?”

Dalla had no answer.

 Alarmed and almost in tears, Steffon demanded, “How ill is she? Is she very, very ill? Is she dying?”

“No, she is not dying. Don’t be silly.” Dalla came to hug him, but Steffon wriggled free from her embrace.

“Why can’t I see her? Why can’t I see Mother?”

Dalla would not say. “Eat your dinner like a good boy now, m’lord.”

He didn’t _want_ to be a good boy. He wanted to see his mother.  

When Father finally came, he sat on the edge of Steffon’s bed, looking so grave that Steffon promptly burst into tears. “Is Mother dying?” he managed to ask, between sobs.

Father looked shocked. “No, no. Of course she is not dying.”

“Dalla said Mother is not well, but I’m not supposed to see her.”

 “Your mother is not ill, Steffon. She is grieving.”

“Grieving?” _Grieving is what you do when someone you love is dead_ , Dalla had told Steffon, after her husband died. But Mother’s husband is _Father_ , and Father is obviously not dead. Who else could it be? “Who died?” Steffon asked.

“Do you remember your uncle Daeron?”

Steffon nodded. Of course he remembered. Uncle Daeron was the uncle who had spent the most time with Steffon during his visit to King’s Landing. Uncle Jaehaerys was ill and Uncle Duncan kept his distance, but Uncle Daeron took Steffon on a tour of the Red Keep and even played monsters and maidens with Steffon, Cousin Aerys and Cousin Rhaella.

“How did he die?” 

“He died a hero, quashing a rebellion.”

Eyes wide as saucer, Steffon asked, “A rebellion? Like Grandfather Lyonel’s rebellion?”

Frowning, his father replied, “No, not like that at all. Your uncle Daeron died defending the realm from villains who were trying to cause mayhem for the sake of causing mayhem.” 

“What about his friend? Did he die too?”

“His friend? Which friend?”

“Ser Jeremy.” Ser Jeremy had been with them when Uncle Daeron took Steffon on a tour of the Red Keep. Ser Jeremy had tousled Steffon’s hair, then asked Uncle Daeron, _Is that allowed, tousling the hair of the king’s grandson?_ Uncle Daeron had laughed and said, _I don’t recall you asking permission when it is the king’s son._

“Ser Jeremy? Do you mean Jeremy Norridge? He is dead as well,” Father replied. “He was fighting alongside Daeron.”

Uncle Daeron and Ser Jeremy had promised to take Steffon hunting, on his next visit to King’s Landing.

Dead people could not go hunting, though. They could not go anywhere at all. Dalla’s husband could not even come home to visit his children, even when Alla and Allard started crying asking for their father.

Fresh tears assailed Steffon. He buried his face on his father’s chest. Father’s hand was stroking Steffon’s hair as he asked, “Do you want to see your mother?”

Steffon raised his head, wiping away the tears with the palm of his hand. “Can I?”

“Yes. She wants to see you. But you must not disturb her with questions. Or with tears.”

“I won’t cry in front of Mother. I promise!”

Father said they must make sure that Steffon looked presentable so Mother would not be worried about her boy. “Can you comb your hair yourself, or should I call Dalla?” Father teased.

“I can do it myself,” Steffon said, outraged. “I’m not a _baby_.”

After Steffon was done combing his hair, Father took out a handkerchief to wipe the tears from Steffon’s cheeks. He inspected his son, dry-eyed now, standing there in his nightshirt, feet jiggling with anticipation.

“I suppose this will do,” Father said, but he sounded uncertain.

“Of course it will. Let’s _go_ ,” Steffon said, taking his father’s hand and trying to pull him towards the door, impatient to see his mother.

Mother was sitting up in bed when Steffon entered her bedchamber. Her eyes looked red, but she was not crying. Holding out both hands towards Steffon, she said, “Come here. See, I am not dying after all.”

Dalla must have _told_ on him. How could she? But if she hadn’t, maybe Mother would not have asked for Steffon to be brought to her room. He must thank Dalla later.

Steffon ran to his mother, throwing himself into her embrace. “I’m sorry Uncle Daeron is dead, Mother.” He added, “I liked Uncle Daeron. He was nice to me.”

Mother kissed him, both cheeks and the top of his head too.  

“To bed, young man,” Father said, after Mother was done kissing him.

Steffon did not want to go back to his room. “I want to stay with you. Can I, Mother? Please?”

They slept three in the bed that night, with Steffon in the middle between his father and mother. “He made me laugh, Uncle Daeron,” Steffon whispered to his mother.

“He made me laugh as well,” she replied.

“You shared a cat with him, when you were a little girl. You wanted to name the cat Egg, he said.”

Mother smiled, but this smile was different from any one of her usual smiles. “He told you about that?”

Steffon nodded.

He fell asleep holding his mother’s hand, waking up in the middle of the night to the sound of his mother sobbing. Father had woken up too and left his side of the bed. He was sitting on a chair next to Mother’s side of the bed, holding her hand, murmuring something Steffon could not hear. Mother buried her face on Father’s chest, like Steffon had done earlier.

Steffon closed his eyes and fell asleep again.

**_______________________**

**252 AC**

It was Steffon’s sixth nameday, but his father was not at Storm’s End.

“Father has never been away on my nameday before,” Steffon grumbled.

Uncle Harbert laughed. “How do you know? How many namedays do you remember having?”

“I remember last year. And the year before that. And -” No, he did not remember his third nameday. Nor his second. And certainly not his first.

“You are six now. Too big to sulk,” Mother said.

“I’m not _sulking_. But where has Father gone?”

“To King’s Landing. He has urgent business with the king,” Mother replied.  

“Is it to do with the new grain tax?”

Uncle Harbert pretended to twist Steffon’s ear. “Have you been eavesdropping again? Naughty boy.”

Steffon ran in circles, shrieking gleefully while Uncle Harbert tried to catch him. “I didn’t have to. They were _really_ loud, those  stormlords who came to see Father,” Steffon said, after Uncle Harbert finally caught him.

One of the stormlords had been the loudest, and the rudest. “We know the king is your own good-father, Lord Ormund, but you are still Lord Paramount of the Stormlands. It is your duty to convey our strong objection to the king, despite any feeling of kinship on your part. Your late father Lord Lyonel would not have hesitated. He would have been the first to lead the charge against the king’s monstrous and malicious proposal, loudly and proudly.”

“I know my duty,” Father had snapped in anger.

 “We mean no disrespect, Lord Ormund,” another lord had intervened, in a more conciliatory tone.

“It has naught to do with kinship, I assure you. I will relate your objection to the king, of course, as is my duty. But I do not see that the proposal is as monstrous or as malicious as you claim it to be. As His Grace stated in his decree, the new grain tax is meant to furnish a fund that will be used to aid farmers when their crops fail, so their family will not starve to death. I have my own concern regarding how fairly and effectively the scheme will be administered, but the intent behind the tax is the king’s concern for the well-being of his subjects. There is nothing monstrous or malicious about that.” 

“To tax _us_ , to tax highborn lords to help these commoners, _these_ … _these_ … lowborn _peasants_ , you do not consider that monstrous?” the first lord sputtered.

“These _peasants_ are also counted among the king’s loyal subjects.”

“Surely they do not count as much as _us_. Surely the king understands this, or is he too much of a –“

“But of course,” the seemingly conciliatory lord interjected, smoothly, “we should not forget that Lord Ormund spent many years in King’s Landing serving as the king’s royal page and squire before his late, lamented father rebelled against the crown. Your opinion on the matter must have been deeply influenced by the king, Lord Ormund, and understandably so.”

“My opinion is my own. I am my own man, I assure you, not my good-father’s puppet, if that is what you are implying.”

“Each lord is responsible for the welfare of the people living in his lands. We would never have let them starve. There is no need for this sort of intervention from the crown.”

“You know as well as I do that there _are_ some lords who would blithely turn a blind eye to the suffering of their own people.”  

“Even so, a few rotten apples in the barrel do not justify what the king is trying to do. He is usurping our traditional rights and obligations. Does the king mean to get rid of all lords altogether, and rule the entire realm as if it is his personal possession?”

“His Grace has no such intention, I am certain.”

“Perhaps not so blatantly. But is it all that different if he presumes to take away all our gods-given rights, leaving us with mere titles but no actual power?”

 

**____________________**

Father returned from King’s Landing bringing many gifts for Steffon. Grandmother’s nameday gift for Steffon was a leather-bound book about mythical creatures with beautiful but sometimes terrifying illustrations. Aunt Shaera’s and Cousin Rhaella’s gifts were a set of embroidered handkerchiefs. Aunt Shaera’s embroidery was more delicate and detailed, but Cousin Rhaella’s embroidery of a trio of jumping stags was the one Steffon loved more.

Grandfather’s gift was a pony. A white pony. The pony was wearing a straw hat. Steffon laughed and laughed. Father looked mystified. “The hat is as much a gift as the pony, your grandfather said to tell you. Why the straw hat?”

“He remembered!” Steffon said excitedly, taking the straw hat from the pony and putting it on his own head.

Mother sighed. “My father has been filling Steffon’s head with stories.”

“What stories?” Father asked.

“Stories about when Grandfather squired for Ser Duncan. Grandfather said you loved those stories too, Mother, when you were a little girl. You were always asking him to tell you more.”

“That was a long time ago,” Mother said, dismissing the subject, though it could not have been all that long ago, Steffon thought, if Grandfather could still recount in great detail which story was Mother’s favorite.  

There was no gift from Cousin Aerys, though there was a letter from him telling Steffon all about his new appointment as a royal page. “I am the only one trusted to pour the wine into Grandfather’s goblet,” he wrote. “The other pages said they have never seen a royal page as accomplished as me.”

“As if the other pages would dare tell the king’s grandson and the boy second in line to the throne anything different,” Father scoffed, when Steffon showed him the letter.

“I’m sure Cousin Aerys is truly accomplished,” Steffon said loyally. “Why would the other pages lie to him?”  

“To curry favor,” Mother said.

“They may not have much choice in the matter. Your cousin is not a boy who takes kindly to being thwarted. He seems to love nothing more than his favor being curried,” Father said.   

Later, with Steffon sprawled on the floor of his father’s solar examining the most terrifying creatures in the book given to him by his grandmother, his father and mother spoke of the news from court.

“Brynden Rivers has disappeared,” Father said. “He went on a ranging mission beyond the Wall and never returned to Castle Black.”

Mother turned pale. “What about my uncle Aemon?” she asked anxiously.  

Father reached out to grasp Mother’s hand. “Your uncle is safe. He was the one who wrote to your father about the Lord Commander’s disappearance. The Black Brothers have gone on many trips beyond the Wall to look for him, but he seems to have vanished into thin air.”

“Maybe he was eaten by a dragon,” Steffon interjected.

“There are no dragons. Not anymore,” Mother said.

“We don’t know what creatures live beyond the Wall. Maester Cressen said so,” Steffon said, standing up, still clutching the book in his hand.

“I’m sure Maester Cressen did not mean dragons,” Father said, smiling indulgently, tousling Steffon’s hair.

“Grandfather said dragons could come back.”

Alert now, Father asked, “When was this? When did he tell you this?”

“I remember him telling Mother, last year when we were in King’s Landing.”

Father shot Mother a dark look. Mother frowned and looked away.

“All this talk of dragon is foolish,” Father snapped. Then, seeing the crushed look on Steffon’s face, his expression softened. “Forgive me. I have not given you my gift for your nameday,” he said.

Surprised, Steffon said, “But I already have your gift. Mother said the cloak is from both of you.”

The cloak was a miniature version of Father’s best cloak in Steffon’s size, made from the same material, with the same cut, color and trimmings. _It’s only for special occasions,_ Mother had said, when Steffon asked to wear it to dinner on his nameday. What special occasion? What could be more special than his nameday? _You’ll see,_ Mother had replied.

“So the cloak is not a gift from you and Mother both?”

Father and Mother exchanged glances. Father looked embarrassed. “Your mother told you that because she did not want you to think that I had forgotten about your nameday,” he finally said, ruefully.

“So you _did_ forget?” Steffon asked, dismayed. It had never even occurred to him that his father might have forgotten. How could he have forgotten? It’s not like Father had dozens and dozens of children who were always running around having namedays all year round. _One_ son. He had just the one. Only Steffon. How could Father forget?

“I remember in time to get you this gift,” Father said, taking out a wooden box from a drawer and handing it to Steffon. A prancing stag was carved on the top cover, with Steffon’s name carved below the stag. _Steffon Baratheon_ , the S and B larger and fancier than the other letters. Transfixed, Steffon slowly traced the letters with his finger.

“Open it,” Father said.

The clasp was hard to undo. Father offered to help, but Steffon wanted to do it himself. Finally, he succeeded. Inside, nestled on a black-and-gold velvet cloth, was the gift from his father.  

“It’s a hunting knife,” Father said.

A hunting knife, with _SB_ carved on the hilt. “This is not a plaything. It is a sharp weapon. Remember that,” Father said.

Steffon nodded solemnly. He ran his fingers down the hilt, but Father’s hand stopped him before he touched the blade.

“Careful,” Father warned. “Do you like it?” Father asked, examining Steffon’s face.

Did he? He wasn’t sure. The gift made him uneasy. It looked like something meant for an older boy, or at least a different kind of boy. Father had never given him anything like that before. Was Father expecting him to be a different kind of boy, now that his sixth nameday had come and gone?

“Well?”

Father looked so expectant, so Steffon gave Father his widest grin and said, “Of course I do. Thank you, Father. But when will I ever use it? You’ve never taken me hunting.”

His father did not go hunting often, and he did not enjoy it like Uncle Harbert did. But Father said hunting was one of the things a lord was expected to do, so do it he must. _Only you could make hunting sounds like a tedious chore,_ Uncle Harbert had said, laughing at Father’s grimace.

“I will take you hunting very soon. You’re old enough now,” Father replied to Steffon.

“He is too young,” Mother dissented.

“I was his age when my lord father took me hunting for the first time,” Father replied.

Mother did not say anything, but Steffon and Father both recognized that look on her face, the one that said she was not convinced at all. “Rhaelle,” Father said, putting his hand on her arm. “You were the one who said our son is old enough to sit beside me and learn how the Lord of Storm’s End holds court and dispenses justice.”

“That is different,” Mother said. “That is –“

Her next words were drowned by Steffon’s excited chatter. “You mean I am to sit beside Father in the great hall, when he holds court?”

Father nodded.

Steffon had watched Mother sitting beside Father in some sessions, and sometimes it was Uncle Harbert who sat beside Father. Father did most of the talking, but often Mother would say something too. Uncle Harbert never said anything unless Father asked him a question. Steffon had never seen Uncle Harbert being that quiet at any other time. Usually Uncle Harbert had plenty to say.  

Perhaps it was terrifying, sitting up there on the dais, with so many people watching. His initial excitement was fading, turning into trepidation. What if Father asked him a question and Steffon did not know the answer? Or what if he gave the wrong answer, and everyone in the hall started laughing at him? Father would be shamed, and Steffon would be mortified.

“Do you think you are ready?” Father asked, his hands on Steffon’s shoulders.

_No! I don’t want to do it. Not yet._

Steffon wanted to bury his face on Father’s chest, like he used to do when he was crying, but he was a big boy now, like Mother said. A big boy would not cry out, “I don’t want to!” or “You can’t make me!” Those are for little boys, and he was _six_ now, not a little boy anymore.

So he hugged his father and said that _of course_ he was ready. Turning to his mother, he asked, shyly, “Can I wear my new cloak?”   


End file.
